Come What May
by DuchessAndromeda
Summary: All Harry wants is to be normal, but what you want isn't always what you need. Sometimes it takes an extreme act to get either. Add to that Death speaking in your mind, and something crying in the cupboard and things get a little weird.
1. Prologue

Title: Come What May

Author: DuchessAndromeda

Rating: Pg-13 to R

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all other recognizable characters are the property of J.K.Rowling and copywrited to various corporations and publications that are too numerous to name and difficult to spell. No infringement is intended.

Summary: All Harry wants is to be normal, but what you want isn't always what you need. And sometimes, it takes an extreme act to get either.

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**~Prologue~**

            It wasn't like it happened every day. In fact, it wasn't even that it happened very often. At least, not as often as it could.

            That was Harry's excuse. It wasn't as bad as it could be; therefore it had to be all right. Forgetting the fact that he could barely stand, let alone walk. And the fact that every evening, it became a little bit harder to catch his breath after climbing the stairs. And later the fact that it was easier to fit into the little space that was his cupboard. But, it still wasn't as bad as it could have been.

            It wasn't as if he were completely ignored, or killed. And there were plenty of people in the world that would kill for his meager portions of food. He had food. And he had a roof over his head. And he was a murderer, and therefore all of this was justified.

            At least, that's what he tried to tell himself. What his Uncle wanted him to believe.

            None the less, there was this tiny piece of him in the back of his mind that whispered that his Uncle was wrong, that he didn't deserve this. Harry was too tired to listen to it any more, to try and placate it. Lately, it seemed to be becoming more desperate. It pleaded with him not to give up. If Harry were thinking, he would wonder about a voice in his head pleading with him, but Harry was not thinking, and he wasn't what most would consider normal anyway.

            Harry Potter was a wizard. The Boy-Who-Lived, Golden Boy of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and Savior of the Wizarding World.

            Harry Potter was also an abused child, a neglected orphan, a freak, a punching bag, a murderer, and a good fuck.

            At least, that's what his uncle told him.

            Harry Potter was a spoiled child, a rotten brat that never had to work a day in his life, and had everything that he had ever wanted handed to him on a silver platter.

            If you had asked Professor Snape, that is.

            Harry Potter was the bane of existence, the embodiment of plans gone wrong and the tenacity that comes with life. He was the accumulation of all the pain and failures of one man.

            If you asked Lord Voldemort.

            So in the end, Harry Potter was Harry Potter. Not Harry, or any other deviation of the word. And in all cases, Harry Potter was not normal.

            But that didn't stop him from hoping.


	2. Eye of the Beholder

Title: Come What May

Author: DuchessAndromeda

Rating:  Pg-13

Disclaimer:  All recognizable characters belong to J.K.Rowling and various other people that I don't know.  No infringement is intended.

Summary:  All Harry wants is to be normal, but what we want and what we need are sometimes two very different things.  Sometimes it takes an extreme act to get either.

Author's Notes:  This story is just writing itself, as every time I try to make an outline, it tends to be discarded.  Special thanks goes out to my one reviewer, Wiccan PussyKat.  I am honored to know that I am on your favorite list, and hope that this chapter lives up to your expectations.

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**~Chapter 1~**

            It wasn't as if no one knew what went on behind the closed doors of number four, Privet Drive. After five years of boarding school and dorm room living, it would be impossible to hide the little signs, if not the big ones. Scars could be hidden. Broken bones and sprained muscles could be compensated for. But the little things, being unable to sleep in a bed so large, the way black circles perpetually hovered around Harry's eyes, the way he would jump if someone touched his shoulder. With time, these things could be corrected, but if there was one thing that Harry didn't have other than a loving family, it was time.

            Harry Potter was dying.

_Order Headquarters: __Twelve Grimmauld Place__, __London___

            Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasely were worried. While it was true that Hermione was often worried about one thing or another, on subjects that ranged from House Elf freedom, to whether all the extra studying she was doing would be enough for the up coming school year, Ron was the exact opposite. In fact, most people would have been hard pressed to come up with a subject that Ron Weasley would worry about, but when they finally did, they would all agree. Ron Weasely would _always_ worry about Harry Potter. Having grown up in a large family, Ron knew what normal behavior was and what wasn't. Even if he was generally considered clueless, he was still the youngest of the male Weaselys, and he had paid close attention to what his older brothers had done while growing up. Similarly, Ron had also observed the little things that Harry had done. Possessing a great analytical mind, and able to come up with chess strategies at a moments notice, Ron was constantly looking at the little things that happened around him, and to those of which he considered friends.

            Hermione was considered the greatest witch of her age, and spent so much time researching that she knew the value of a single word. Entire essays and tombs of knowledge had been deemed worthless by one ill-placed word, or ill-managed sentence. Attention to detail was always one of her strong suits, and she had been paying attention since she could remember. But Harry… was different.

            It had finally gotten to the point that Hermione had to bring in someone else to voice her suspicions to. Ron was the only other person that she could come up with that Harry might not be upset about her telling, so Ron Weasely was the one she told. And she was never so happy, and sad, that she had.

            With Ron's inner knowledge of the boy's dorm, and Hermione's ability to take the smallest thing and use it to make a large picture, they were slowly able to piece together part of the puzzle that was Harry Potter.

            It didn't happen all at once, but then, most things never do. In stolen moments under the stairs, or in a room that the others would soon clean, Ron and Hermione painstakingly went back over their years at Hogwarts to find any and everything concerning Harry. Late at night, Hermione would sneak into Ron's room to continue their earlier discussions, but they were wary, for in the Order Headquarters, there was always someone awake.

            In the end, they had half of the puzzle, and a lot of worry. Armed with what they had gleaned, they prepared to confront the Order. One thing was for sure, Dumbledore had hell to pay.

_Order Headquarters, the Kitchen, Wednesday night's Order meeting_

            The inside of the kitchen was crowded. People of all ages were gathered there to discuss what they could do in the war against Voldemort. The kitchen table was taken up by the main members; that is to say Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall, Remus Lupin, Arthur and Molly Weasley, Nymphadora Tonks, Alastor Moody, and Mundungus Fletcher. Around them were the oldest Weasely children (minus Percy), some Aurors, Professors, and various other people that had either been involved in the last war, or were recruited by the others. While the meeting hadn't officially started yet, it was generally understood that the children in the household would stay away from the kitchen during this time - which is partly why it was such a shock to see Ron and Hermione walk into the kitchen during this chaotic scene. The other reason that their presence was shocking was the waves of fury they were emitting. Unconsciously, the people closest to them shifted backwards, running into others and generally creating a small domino effect. The first to recover was, of course, Ron's mother.

            "_Ronald Weasely!_ You know that this is the Order meeting for Members only, and as such I expect you to turn around and march back up to your room right now! And Hermione! I had expected better from you! For over a year now we have been doing this, one would hope that you would know the rules and be able to follow them by now! Be glad that we weren't discussing anything serious or we might have had to memory charm you two! Is that what you want?" The rest of Mrs. Weasely's tirade was cut off by a glare from her youngest son.

            "We're here to talk about Harry." Hermione's voice was colder than any had ever heard it, but there was not mistaking the absolute fury behind her words.

            "Whatever it is that Mr. Potter has managed to do to make you so upset, I highly doubt that it is of any interest or important to the Order as a whole. Perhaps if you took it up with Lupin after the meeting, then the rest of us could get back to our meeting." The unspoken, "_and stop wasting our time",_ hung in the air. Snape's customary sneer was in place as he looked down his long nose at the teenagers.

            "So, Hermione, the Boy-Who-Lived could be dying and the Order doesn't care? Of course, how silly of us to think otherwise. Snape is right, I mean, why on earth would the possible demise of the one person who has defeated Voldemort possibly be of concern to the Order as a whole? Particularly while many of them know him personally and seem unduly concerned when he has a paper cut?" Ron's voice was bitting and filled with no little bit of sarcasm as he turned to Hermione. She also turned to face him, as if they were the only two in the room.

            "But Ronald dear, they haven't been very concerned about him for at least a year. And in fact, it is arguable if they ever truly were concerned with him, or with his name. After all, the Order is comprised of _adults_ and everyone knows that only _adults_ are able to fight Voldemort. Never mind the fact that it is generally a group of _students_ who uncover and set in motion the plans for dealing with whatever evil entity is threatening Hogwarts every year. After all, the _adults_ have it all under control. Come, let us owl the rest of the D.A. I'm sure with our combined resources that we might be able to save him in time, even if we are forbidden to use magic during the summer." Her cutting tones, combined with both of their uses of You-Know-Who's name effectively set most of the Order back. The rest of their conversation piqued the interest of every one, except for Snape. (But then, he refused to admit being interested in anything other than his potions). As the teenagers turned to leave, Dumbledore called them back.

            "Ms. Granger, Mr. Weasely, please come back. I assure you that we do indeed care about Harry and would be happy to discuss this now. That is, if you think that it would be prudent for us to do so instead of immediately setting out to save him?" Dumbledore's twinkle was dimmed, and an unspoken challenge lingered in the blue depths of his eyes.

            Together Ron and Hemione turned back to face the Order, sharing a glace that conveyed more than words. It was Hermione who took the initiative.

            "How much do you know of Harry's home life, Professors?" Whatever Dumbledore had been expecting, it wasn't that.

            "After his parents died, I placed Harry with his last living blood relatives. They lived in a normal muggle home, in a normal neighborhood. At the time, their family consisted of his Aunt, Uncle, and a cousin about his age, although they could have had more children after this. He has lived with them ever since and although he never seems to want to go back to them, I assume that he is treated well." McGonagall gave Dumbledore a look before saying her part.

            "They seemed to be the worst sort of muggles when I looked at them for a day, but as I have never seen or heard of any proof, I too must believe that they are treating him well." Most of the other professors expressed similar views, and well as the order members who had actually met Harry. The last to speak was Professor Snape, and he seemed strangely hesitant to do so.

            "While Potter has displayed very few signs of abuse, while teaching him Occlumency last term, I came across some… disturbing memories. A boy I assume must be his cousin chasing him with a stick. A dog barking up him while he sat up in a tree. A small, dark room that must be a closet of some kind."

            "I have to give the guy his due, he's good. Too good." Ron murmured his agreement to Hermione's statement, shaking his head in bafflement.

            "On the contrary, Potter displayed absolutely no aptitude for Occlumency." Hermione gave the Professor a pitying look.

            "By the end of this session, you may think that he knew more than you have given him credit for." Snape bristled and prepared to give a scathing retort, but was cut off by Ron.

            "I first met Harry on the train going to Hogwarts. He was dressed in baggy clothes that had obviously seen better days. Being the youngest male in such a large family, I knew all about hand-me downs and thought that he was just like me. It made me feel better that the Boy-who-lived was poor too. Then he took out a money pouch and bought all kinds of treats off of the cart. He didn't seem to be stuck-up or obnoxious, and was actually rather kind to my tactless questions about his scar. It was shortly after all of this that our compartment was entered by Malfoy and his gang. After insulting me, Malfoy offered his hand in friendship to Harry. And, if Malfoy hadn't just insulted me, Harry might well have taken it. Instead, he refused, and cemented my devotion to him. At the time, I hadn't realized how dangerous and trying that devotion would be." Ron looked down, anger displaced by sorrow, and Hermione took up the story.

            "They saved me from a troll that year, and so I was added to their group. Despite his fame, that group has still basically remained the three of us. Through the years, there were numerous little things that occurred mainly after arriving at school. Using one hand more than the other, getting up before even me, a look of pain when one of us would clap him on the back, getting tired early in the evening. By themselves, they aren't much, but coupled with Harry's reluctance to talk about his family, his begging to stay with Ron during summer break and absolute refusal to go home during Christmas, it begins to paint a different picture." By this point, Ron had recovered enough to continue, while some of the more worldly Order members began to get a speculative gleam in their eyes.

            "During the summer before second year, I had written many letters to Harry asking him to come and visit. He had seemed very excited about it when I had mentioned the possibility earlier, and I couldn't understand why he didn't at least write back to say that he wasn't interested. With the help of Fred and George, I set off to go and see him. When we arrived at his 'perfectly normal muggle home', there were bars on his window. Bars that were so closely fitted that he could barely stick his hand out, let alone let an owl in. And as Harry was so very small, his hands should have been able to fit almost anywhere. We tore the bars off his window, and the twins went downstairs to unlock the cupboard where his trunk was being held. There were locks on his door, and a cat flap closer to the ground where a tray of moldy food sat. Hedwig was very skinny and her cage was also locked. As we were getting ready to leave, Harry's uncle awoke, and burst into the room. Seeing what was happening, he grabbed a hold of Harry's ankle and tried his best to pull him back into the house, screaming something about freakishness. We escaped then, and whenever the subject of how we had found him came up, he just turned his head away and changed the subject."

            "At the end of Harry's third year, he met the escaped criminal Sirius Black. After being prepared to hex him if he tried to harm Ron or I any more than he already had, Harry agreed to move in with him. He was beaming, as if living with an escaped convict would be the best thing that had ever happened to him.

            Looking back, I think it was."


	3. Just Breathe

Title: Come What May

Author: DuchessAndromeda

Rating:  Pg-13

Disclaimer: If you recognize them, there's a pretty good chance that they do not belong to me but to other people that make a lot more money.

Summery: All Harry wants is to be normal, but what you want and what you need are two different things.  And sometimes it takes an extreme act to get either.

Author's Notes:  On to chapter two, with two new reviews! Hmm, I'm detecting a pattern here! Anyway, a special thanks goes out to Wiccan PussyKat for continuing to review and voice her opinions on what flows and what doesn't.  Also, thanks to AJaKe for reviewing and requesting this update.

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**~Chapter 2~**

            It was cold. Harry shivered in the darkness. The only light came in through the vent at the top of the cupboard that his Uncle had forgotten to close after the last yelling session. He made a special effort to be quiet, which was particularly hard with lungs that rattled with each breath, and begged for him to cough in hopes of relieving the congestion. But coughing was loud, and travelled quickly through the paper-thin walls and door of his cupboard. And if there was one thing that Harry now knew, it was that noises of any type coming from him would no longer be tolerated.

            The sudden sound of a vase smashing on the ground broke the silence. Uncle Vernon roared with fury, and Harry shivered in his cupboard.

            It was time for another round.

~~~

_Order Headquarters, the Kitchen_

            The silence was deafening. To one who had never heard of deafening silence, the phrase means little, but those in the kitchen at number twelve, Grimmauld Place intimately knew the exact meaning of those four little words. Hermione's last words still hung in the air, and all the possibilities that it opened up bombarded the room.

            By saying that being able to live with Sirius would have been the best thing to ever happen to Harry, it implied that leaving the family that had housed him for most of his life would have been no hardship. That leaving any friends he might have had in the neighborhood would have been worth it to live with an at least partially insane escaped convict in who-knew-what type of conditions.

            The implications behind that statement made the adults shift in their chairs, guilty looks beginning to take the place of polite curiosity. After all, they had all known what had happened in the previous years. Or at least, part of it.

            After giving that time to sink in, Ron took up the tale of Harry's fourth year, leaving nothing out, not even the illegal trips to the cave that Sirius had been hiding in. Most looked uneasy when they were told that Harry still blamed himself for Cedric's death, and occasionally still had nightmares. Tonks and the older Weasely children had the grace to look ashamed that they hadn't fought harder to get Harry to headquarters sooner. After seeing a boy die, it wasn't right for Harry to have been practically cut off from his only support.

            But still, the adults stayed quiet as Ron finished and Hermione picked up for Harry's fifth year. That is, they stayed quiet until they learned of the detentions with Umbridge.

            "She WHAT?! Why, when I get my hands on that… that… no good, low down _beast_ of a woman..." Mrs. Weasely cried out, jumping out of her chair. Others voiced their agreement, while a few turned green. Dumbledore and McGonagall looked down at the table in shame. Ron smirked, while Hermione watched the proceedings impassively.

            "If you don't mind," she began in a bored tone. "I'm not yet finished." Still grumbling, the others settled in to listen. 

            And listen they did. They learned in detail the things that had only been briefly mentioned at various other meetings or in conversations with those involved. They learned of the formation of the D.A. and how they organized the meetings. Of Harry's reluctance to teach them, knowing that there would probably be older students in the group. Of the interview with the Quibbiler, and the ill-fated date with Cho. Ron and Hermione took turns telling the tale, and when the last of the words faded away, the Order were all looking at the two teens who had seen so much, in no little bit of shock and awe.

            Lupin was the first to move. He stood up and practically slammed his chair against the wall before quickly striding towards the exit. Ron stepped to block his way.

            "I'm sorry Professor, but I can't let you leave."

            "But I have to go to him! I have to do _something_!" Ron looked at the distraught werewolf impassively.

            "Anything that Harry would have wanted you to do, it is too late to accomplish. You see, you have heard our tale, but what do you know of Harry's home life? Anything really new? Anything to warrant taking him out of there now, and not in five minutes? No, I thought not. Please, go and sit back down." Snarling, Lupin did as he was told, but he sat so stiffly, as to be ready to leap up and run at a moments notice.

            "You see, Ron and I are deeply worried about Harry, but there's nothing that we are able to do right now. Harry is very good at hiding everything that he thinks and feels, and in fact, if there wasn't something that we were there for, he never tells us. We have a lot of the pieces to this puzzle, but there is still something that we are missing. When Professor Dumbledore took Harry back with him after the disaster at the Department of Mysteries, something major happened. After he came back to us, it was if something had clicked, changing everything from the way he held himself, to the way he ate. No, I'm not asking you to make any excuses or to even tell us what you said. I just want you to be aware that whatever it is you told him, you chose the wrong time to do so. The young are easy to change, as they often times forget what had happened the day before. But Harry… he has never been given the chance to be young. And the only thing that he has ever asked from any of you was honesty, but I find myself doubting that you even gave him that." Hermione's look had forestalled the raising reasons that Dumbledore would have given voice to, in the vain hope of freeing himself of the guilt that had attached itself to his soul.

            "There is more than what Hermione has said. We would not have come in here to merely inform you all of the mistakes that had been made. You see, Hermione and I have reason to believe that Harry Potter is being abused. Dreadfully, mercilessly abused. And not one of you have noticed. Tell us, Professor Dumbledore, how often did you check on Harry in all the years that he lived there, in the house with the perfectly normal muggle family who might not take very kindly to the introduction of magic into their home and everyday lives? I know that I would not have taken kindly to an intrusion of something that I had no comprehension of, and less of how to deal with." Dumbledore cleared his throat before fixing his gaze upon Ron's.

            "Mrs. Arabella Figg lives close by to Harry. She is a trusted associate of mine, and would have brought it to my attention if anything had gone wrong with Harry's acceptance of his new life." Hermione gave him a pitying look that made the old wizard squirm in his seat, as if he were a young boy who was speaking of things that he had no knowledge of.

            "Headmaster, with all due respect, you have no idea what the hell you're talking about. The first rule any abused child learns is either Don't Ask Questions, or Don't Let Anyone Find Out. The first keeps them from being beaten any more than they usually are, the second is out of belief that no one _would_ believe them, or care if they told the truth."

            Snape looked ill. Not just the, 'I have a cold and will sneeze on you, so get out of my way ill', but the 'I can't believe what has happened, it is turning my stomach, and I am going to vomit all over you, ill'. Being the head of Slytherin, he had seen many abused children, and had even been one himself. If anyone in the room was supposed to have recognized the signs, it would be him. Looking back, if one of his Slytherins had displayed the lack of regard for their own welfare, he would have immediately delved into their past and home life, in hopes of finding out the source of their low self-worth.

            But this...this was Harry Potter! Potter, who had access to gold that practically defied imagination. Potter, who merely had to grimace in distaste to get an item removed from the Hogwarts menu. Potter, who...who handled his knived in the manner of one used to chopping up various items, and who dissected live worms, without a flicker of nausea at the amount of blood. Potter, who flew with a disregard for rules and safety, and seemed to delight in almost hitting the ground. Potter, who had barely winced when he had broken his arm in his second year, and had only looked at it in astonishment when that fool of a defense teacher dissolved the bones.

            Around him, plans were being made in regards to getting him out of there, and legally keeping him out, but Snape merely looked down at the table in shame, wondering when he had become to conceited as to be able to see what was right in front of him. That _Harry_ was not the one like James Potter....

            But he was.

~~~

_Four privet Drive_

            Harry liked being in his cupboard, even if it was rather cold and dark. As he had discovered early on in his life, as long as he was in the cupboard, he wouldn't be hurt. It was outside that the world entered in and brought with it the pain and misery of those who perpetually inhabited it.

            But the cupboard was his. And in that little space, it didn't matter that Dudley was upstairs in his large room with all the toys and computers. Or that all too soon Aunt Petunia would be awakening him to make her precious Diddiums breakfast, before loading Harry down with an even longer list of chores than the day before. It didn't even matter that as soon as Aunt Petunia and Dudley were asleep, that Uncle Vernon would come downstairs to "play" with him.

            All that mattered were the shadows on the wall, and Harry's continued breathing.


	4. And its the End of the World As We Know ...

Title: Come What May

Author: DuchessAndromeda

Rating: R (Sorry, I tried, the next chapter should be… cleaner!)

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to J.K.Rowling and various other people that I don't know. No infringement is intended.

Summary: All Harry wants is to be normal, but what we want and what we need are sometimes two very different things. Sometimes it takes an extreme act to get either.

Author's Notes: Thanks again to Wiccan PussyKat, who has continually encouraged me to add some humor in with my degradations.  She has also encouraged me to move the plot a long, and don't worry, the Order should actually see what they have done in this chapter… I think.  And yes, this will have romantic under themes, but I have yet to decide who to pair people with.  There will probably be some minor R/Hr, but as to Harry… well, right now he mainly needs someone to care for him, not someone to fuck.   I have nothing against slash myself, as evidenced by my favorite page, but it is doubtful that I will incorporate that into this story.  It is possible that some parts can be taken as slash, and if that's what floats your boat, go right ahead.  If not, well, just take everything at face value, or close your eyes and scroll down.  Gak, this author's note is getting way to long… Bad Duchess! No cookie for you! Er… me.  So, just a few more things before the story will actually begin again.  First, I apologize for the delay in this chapter.  In this, there will be a scene that sets the tone for the rest of the story and I wanted to get it just right.  Also, said scene was rewritten numerous times with various characters before someone finally convinced me to go with the final one…  Secondly, please feel free to review or e-mail me with any or all of your suggestions or comments.  I promise to at least consider them, but they may not be plausible for this author to handle ^.^

Anyway, just a shameless plug: Go read my poetry!! Either here or Fictionpress, either one is fine.  Pretty please?

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**~Chapter 3~**

            If Harry could think coherently, he would have been surprised at the lack of pain. As it was, he was just feeling too blissful to realize exactly what the lack of pain meant. But then, it was a familiar sensation, one that he had experienced many times in his short life. Scary how one who had never heard the phrase "I love you" directed at him could be so willing to die for it, but I digress. Harry Potter lay on the floor of the living room in number 4 Pivet drive, while his Uncle rained blows and words down upon his beaten body. But Harry didn't realize all of that. All he knew was that the pain was gone...

            And that peace was fast approaching.

~~~

_Number __Four, Privet Drive__ - in the yard_

            After learning everything the two teenagers knew about Harry and his situation, the Order had been prepared to fly off to rescue him. Ron and Hermione desperately wished that they could, but since Ron had actually seen Harry's Uncle, and with what Hermione had read on child abuse in the muggle world, they held the others back so that they wouldn't interrupt something that could cost Harry his life.

            In the end it was Tonks that came up with a solution, albeit a temporary one. They would floo Arabella's and ask her if she had seen Harry before going over there. Some would floo, others would apparate, having been there before. Once they were there, the plan was to have Moody use his magical eye to try and find where Harry and his Uncle both were, and at an appropriate interval to enter the domicile and get Harry out.

            But like all the best made plans, it fell to crap when faced with the emotions of very strung out wizards, who happened to care very much about what happened to the one within.

            This was a neighborhood that minded its own business. Either that, or Vernon didn't care what anyone thought. The curtains were drawn back, and as the Order walked up to number 4, they were greeted with a cacophony of colors. White was the original shade of the carpet and walls, barely discernable from the blood splatters that appeared to be everywhere. White was the color of the bones that stuck through Harry's skin, while more blood slowly dripped down to form a pool beneath him. White was the color of the ejaculation from Vernon, as he got off on the pain. Red was the color of the substance that clung to the obese man's now flaccid member. A motley of purples, greens, and blues of the bruises that almost every visible inch of the boy's once flawless skin. Yellow and brown from where Harry had soiled himself out of necessity. And in the midst of it all, the black of the hair that seemed to be the only thing that retained its original color, managing somehow to complete the spectrum.   The ones in front stared in shock, not having expecting things to have been this bad.

            Behind them, someone threw up, and Albus Dumbledore began to move.

            Now, Albus Dumbledore is generally classified as a kind and forgiving soul. Why, it is even said that he could forgive the man who stole his socks, a grave offence in the eccentric Headmaster's world. But seeing this child, his poor beloved child that he had tried ever so hard to protect from the evils he would eventually have to face, being subjected to this inhuman torture, was more than even his jolly, twinkly-eyed self could manage.

            Now, don't let Albus's grandfatherly exterior fool you - while most of the time he is content to be the benign old man who adores socks and lemon drops, as well as manipulating those he views as his children, he was, and still is, one of the most powerful wizards of this age. There are those that argue that he would be the most powerful, if only he would stoop to use the Dark Arts to their full potential, but anyone who knew Albus Wulific Percival Brian Dumbledore knew that he would never do such a thing.

            However, when it came to Vernon Dursley, he was definitely tempted. Gripping his wand tightly in one hand, Albus struggled to contain himself to acceptable parameters of magic. But, with each millisecond that he stood there, and had to watch his poor, beloved Harry in such a state, the angrier he got. And as the late Bartimus Crouch JR saw, and Harry Potter still knew, one simply did not get Albus Dumbledore angry and live to tell about it. That was the lesson that Vernon was about to learn, and it started when the window and the front wall of the house self-destructed.

            If anyone were able to objectively view this scene, they would have been treated to the remarkable likeness that the formally jovial Headmaster now held to the worst of the Dark Lords.

            And if said Dark Lords had seen, and if they had any sense, they would have started running immediately.

            It really is just too bad that Mr. Vernon Dursley who held himself to such remarkable levels of normalcy didn't actually have any sense. For him, at any rate.

~~~

            Harry Potter was tired. And sore. And hungry. But those others were only secondary to the fatigue that seemed to press in from all sides. Dimly, he was aware that his Uncle was still there, and since he wasn't back in the cupboard, the bastard had to be still beating him. But somehow, Harry just couldn't bring himself to care. Breathing took so much effort for his already taxed strength, and he was tempted to just cease the struggle that came with each breath. Some part of him still rebelled at this thought, screaming something about Voldemort, and his friends… but caring took too much effort too. 

            He took one more breath deeply into lungs that were slowly filling with blood, drowning him in a mixture of his own saliva and the liquid that gave him, and Voldemort, life. He breathed out, coughing up a little of the deadly mixture, and prepared to just let go.

            But what was that? Something moved, and it wasn't Vernon's doing. In fact, the man had gone as white and as walls once were and was starting to shake badly. _'Dementors,'_ he thought dimly. But where was the chill? The screams of his parents? Cedric's last moments? Sirius's… no, that was still too painful, too raw. Weakly, he began to twitch, trying to summon the strength to stand and fight. Uncle Vernon may not have been the nicest person, but he and Snape had been the only two to really see him as he was; a murdering, worthless, freak. Such intuition couldn't just be wiped out…

            Slowly, painfully, he worked himself into a sitting position only to be confronted with…Albus Dumbledore?! There was no mistaking it. Even with out his glasses, Harry could easily recognize the man's garish robes, shockingly out of place in this blood filled room. _I'll have to clean this before tomorrow._ Too weak and stunned to do much of anything else, Harry just watched as Dumbledore slammed the larger muggle man against the already dented wall. It was fascinating to watch Vernon receive what he had dished out, Harry still didn't think that the man deserved it. He must have made some type of noise because Albus - _Professor Dumbledore -_ he reminded himself, looked over sharply before stupefying the muggle with a wave of a hand as the now concerned man made his way over to the dying teenager's side. Harry gathered his resources, because the man had to know… Harry wasn't the chosen one. Neville was. After all, there were other ways to be marked, and just because the chubby boy didn't have a scar didn't mean a thing. He was still one of the most powerful students in Harry's class, and the Headmaster had to know that.

            Albus knelt beside the distorted view of his favourite pupil and was unable to stop the tears from forming in his eyes. Gently, he put an arm underneath the boy's shoulders to add support, and was unable to stop the pain in his heart as the child struggled with something. The wizened wizard leaned his head closer, and his heart stop as he finally heard what his poor, beloved child had to say.

            "Professor, I'm sorry..."


	5. Hearts of Ice

Title:  Come What May

Author: DuchessAndromeda

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer:  If I owed it, would I be writing this?

Summary:  All Harry wants is to be normal, but what we want and what we need are sometimes two very different things. Sometimes it takes an extreme act to get either.

Author's Notes:  Thanks be to my two reviews, becca and WiccanPussyKat.  Also, the later has kindly offered to be my beta (Yay! Go me! Now I feel like a real author!) and as such, the quality of these chapters should improve.  If she would be so kind as to go back and beta the previous chapters when she gets a chance, I would greatly appreciate it.  The rest of the good news is that since PK likes this story so much, and has access to my e-mail addy… well, you might be getting chapters more frequently.  It only takes about an hour or so to knock one of these chapters out, so time isn't much of a problem.  And I think remembering is about to get a whole lot easier…

Anyway, on to the story.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**~Chapter 4~**

There are some things that one must know when dealing with Harry Potter.  Of course, these things can only be passed on from someone who actually knows him, so they don't get passed around very often.

The first thing that any one must know is that to fully appreciate Harry for who he is, you have to forget everything that you have ever known about him. Every newspaper article, every rumour whispered behind the hands of children who see him everyday, every assumption that comes into play with his title of the Boy-who-Lived.

The second thing that you must do is to be prepared to accept anything that he says or does, because a failure to do so will end up with trouble for everyone.

Albus Dumbledore had been the Headmaster of Hogwarts when Harry's parents had attended there.  He had seen them laugh and grown, seen the friendships that formed and broke.  He watched them fight and fall in love, and when Harry was born, he was one of the first to meet him.

It was because of all of this that it might be possible for it to be said that he knew Harry Potter better than almost anyone else.  But what he had forgotten, in his advanced age and wisdom, was that little boys who look up at you with adoring eyes and calmly say their first word ("wampa"), may eventually grow up into teenagers who can battle evil wizards, grant interviews like the pros, and steal the harts of his teachers. But they still need the same things they did as children.

Behind him, Albus was vaguely aware of Moody cursing the muggle, and of Remus' wounded howls.  He heard Molly Weasely's wails of sorrow, and the harsh retching of Tonks that inspired a similar response in himself.

The muggles were finally appearing.  Leaving their warm homes and comfortable beds to stand in their yards. And watch as both magical and muggle authorities reported to this strange scene.

All this registered to Albus, and later he would be able to recount what went on that day without any really conscious idea as to how- for his entire world was lying in his arms, dying, and apologizing.

But this was Harry.  He was the boy-who-lived.  He couldn't just die.  Not like this. Now when…

_'When what?'_ the sneaky part of his brain asked.  The part he privately labeled Tom and publically called his muse. _'When he has nothing left to live for?'_

Albus locked gazes with the green eyes that had once been so clear.  Now, through the swollen slits that the horrid muggle had given him, the crystalline quality was vastly reduced.  His eyes seemed almost- milky.  Blind.  As if not used to light of any kind…

And that conjured up a whole plethora of thoughts that he could not focus on right now, because thinking led to anger, and anger led to pain for the people that caused it, and that would require leaving his fallen child on the floor and he couldn't do that.  He couldn't leave this fragile form that had already seen too much for it's years. He couldn't make his arms release their grip upon the starved and ravaged form of his child! His precious, precocious child that had never done anything to deserve this!

Something deep inside him let out a wail to rival that of Remus' and Molly's combined, but all he could do was look at the child in his arms- his child in his arms- and try, try so desperately, utterly hard to be gentle with this form, this fragile, delicate, breakable –broken!- form.

With a hand that shook despite years of practice, he reached out and gently smoothed a lock of hair away from his Harry's eyes.

"What on earth for, child? You have done nothing…" In his arms, the disfigured form leaked all sorts of liquids onto his vibrant robes.  Lemony yellow dancing hippos dodged out of the way as yet another drop of Harry's blood dropped onto the maroon fabric.  The green gaze turned sad.  Even as the child opened his mouth to explain, a coughing fit over took him, rendering speech impossible.

Albus took out one of his large, neon green handkerchiefs and gently cleared out his childs mouth.

Silently, Ron and Hermione watched.

It was one thing to expect that your best friend is being abused; it is quite another to have to confront it as a fact.

Facts were what Hermione was good at.  Facts and figures and calculating the exact time that you had to add the powdered bighorn to the potion before turning off the flames, and stirring precisely six and a half times.

There was no precision in this.

_This_ was madness.  _This_ was chaos and disorder and all those other things that Hermione rarely allowed, and then mainly in her hair and in her boys.  Her sweet boys that tried their best for her, that had saved her from a troll their first year, and in doing so, created a bone between them so strong that it _could not break!_

But now one of them lay broken.

But that was inconceivable, because only Ron had ever been broken, and he was still here and real, and it was Ron, not Harry. Ron. Ron.  It should be Harry standing beside her now, Harry who would know what to say to make everything all right again.

But it was Harry lying there, broken maybe beyond fixing.  Even so, this was magic! Magic, the things that begot fairy tales and superstitions.  Magic that ended wars and created new species.  Magic that could do anything… except save her boys from their fates.  That's the real reason she hated Divination. The very idea that her boys had a fate without her, a fate where they died all alone… But no, that couldn't be right! She wouldn't let it be right because in all the scenarios that she had ever thought of, it had always been her or Ron lying there, beaten and broken.  Bleeding and dying, but going to be saved because that was what Harry did! However, it was Harry lying there, and that went against all the things that she had ever learned and believed in.

And with that green-eyed child, Hermione's well-organized world collapsed into the nightmare of war and reality.  Her spine straightened, and her gaze hardened.  Harry was mercy and light.  Without him, she was left…

Despite everything that he had ever told his parents, or even his friends, Ron still remembered the night that they had gone out to save the stone from Voldemort. He still remembered the feeling of the chess piece hitting him, and how he flew across the room.  He remembered the pain, and his friends frightened cries, and he remembered them leaving him to go onto the next room.  Leaving him on his own, with nothing to distract him from the crushing silence, and the dark.  He had felt death then, and he knew that it would always be close by. Last year's escapade with the brains had intensified his awareness to the ebb of life and death of those that surrounded him, so instead of behind only aware of the shadow about himself, he now knew the shadows that hung over other people as well.  The shadows that would one day swallow them whole.

Clenching his fists, Ron stood in the midst of chaos and resisted the urge to shiver as his shadow left to join with the others. The ones that cloaked Harry from his view.  Beside him, he could feel Hermione's do much the same thing, and as much as he long to just put his arm around her and pull her into a comforting embrace, the knowledge of what was happening to Harry left him feeling…

**Cold.**

The thought echoes between the two teens, and the grass beneath their feet turned white and cracked with sudden frost.  Professor McGonagal apparated to where they were, Madam Pomfrey in tow.  They pushed their way through the crowd that had formed of muggles and wizard alike, united in their gross fascination with the scene in front of them.  They paused momentarily at the threshold between the outside world and the interior of the house before continuing on inside. They were the only ones besides Moody to enter the scene that was devoted to Harry and the Headmaster.

The Nurse's bag swung in her wake, and pushed a startled Professor Snape into the teens beside him.  The sleeve of his robe turned white with ice, and the man's sudden body heat seemed to burn where it touched tem.  With low moans, the two simultaneously scrambled backwards to avoid touching the man who stared at them with open-mouthed astonishment.

Their lips were blue and their skin was the pale white that comes from extreme cold or death.  Small icicles hung in their hair, and their breath was visible even in the low light.  They looked at their Potion's professor with the indifference that Slytherins prized and worked hard to obtain.  Severus looked down at the spreading realm of frost in the summer and then back up at the teens that had turned their gaze away from him, back to the house.  He knew then that whatever they were doing was tied in with the Potter boy, and that if he died…

They would extract their vengeance from the world.  The part of him that he thought had died, killed by numerous attempts on his life and playing the fine line between double agent and Spy for the light let out a wail of fear at the thought of their attentions focused back on himself.  And before he could stop it, he was moving in an undignified scramble back towards the house and Poppy.  If she didn't have the proper potions, he would make them from his own blood if he had to, but that boy had to live.

If he didn't, it looked as if the next ice age would be coming early.


	6. I'm Not Who You Think I Am

Title: Come What May

Author: DuchessAndromeda

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Ok, I admit it. I _am_ JKRowling. Look, it says so right here on my Driver's Liscense… err, actually, it doesn't. Damn. And here I was hoping for at least one of these characters for myself.

Author's Notes: Wow! Thank you all for your wonderful reviews! It really made my day, and my birthday. That's right, I had a birthday since the last posting and nearly received my age in reviews! So, this is where I take a moment to thank them all.  To **Sword Wielder – Firebreath**, thanks for the multiple compliments.  And as for Harry dying, please.  He's one of the main characters.  I may torture/kill him, but he will always come back for more.  What a good little masochist.  To **Englishgirl**, thank you.  I try to make the characters both believable and part of your perspectives.  To **Wiccan PussyKat** thanks again for the wonderful beta and the excellent review.  I hope you have fun on your Easter break.  To **Nemati**, thank you for your review.  To **VLBVLB** (what does this mean anyway?) thank you for both the review and the compliment.  Snape had to wake up eventually, right? I hope he does in JKR's world too.  To **Becca** thanks, but the ice age they would bring wouldn't be a good thing…  To **Brightest Star** just out of curiosity, what hex were you planning on using? And look, an update!  And last, but not least, to **Athenakitty**, thank you for all the questions, and Snape can only make a potion as fast as the ingredients react.  Maybe I should start doing this in e-mails…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**~Chapter 5~**

Alastor "Mad-eye" Moody was worried. Of course, it could be said that he was always concerned about something, and utterly convinced that at least one person (or thing) was out to get him at all times, but this time he felt he was entirely justified in being worried. Not only was Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, the Savior of the Wizarding World, and someone he had sworn to protect lying on the ground, bleeding his life away, but wizarding existence had been revealed to muggles. And that was part of the problem.  
  
The commotion that Lupin and Molly Weasely were causing had awakened the muggles, and brought them out of their comfy homes. If those in the other houses had been awakened by the noise, where were the other inhabitants of Number 4 Pivet Drive? Moody had a keen memory for details - he had to be in order to notice when things were out of place either in his home, or out on a raid - and he clearly remembered Dumbledore saying that Harry lived with his mother's sister, and that the sister was part of the wards.  
  
He also remembered hearing about the boy's obese cousin, the one who was always getting into trouble and sticking his nose where it didn't belong. So where was the sticking? Where was the prying?  
  
At the train station, he had seen the boy's horse-faced aunt, and he had a hard time believing that she would let the chance to gossip slip by, or to willingly allow others in the neighborhood to get information about her family that she didn't want known. And child abuse coupled with wizards are not something that most muggles want others of their kind to know about.  
  
Highly suspicious of this turn of events, Moody turned and clomped towards the stairs.

~ ~ ~

  
Being an Auror was not an easy task. First you had to score well on both your OWLs and NEWTs, and then came the actual Auror training. Most didn't make it, but the ones who did were usually considered top of the line, machines capable of operating under the most excruciating of circumstances.  
  
But for the ones who arrived to the chaos of Pivet drive, all of the Ministry's extensive training was for naught. The youngest of them were in stages of shock, denial, and sickness. The oldest fought back tears and rage. The rest were in varying states ranging from feeling as if the wind had been knocked out of them, through white hot pain and need for revenge that burned in their guts and made their limbs tremble with suppressed emotion.  
  
And still, they had a job to do. The muggles were standing with them, and now knew of their existence. Ministry policy clearly stated that all muggles must be obliviated upon learning of the Wizarding world, providing they were not closely related to a wizard themselves. Half-heartedly, the ones who could still force themselves to move began to do their duty. Or rather, attempted to. More people began arriving as the news spread through the wizarding world that Harry Potter was down, and that You-Know-Who must have something to do with it; muggles appeared, drawn by the cries of an emotionally distraught werewolf, and by the people in robes who were doing things thought to be the stuff of dreams. Or was it nightmares?  
  
  
The muggle authorities were also attempting to do their job. For some of them, child abuse was nothing new, and as they had no idea what the victim represented to so many, they had no real cause to be sick other than the instinctive, sane, humane reaction to the vastly inhuman scene presented to them. In fact, to their credit, if it had been just muggles around, the policemen would have been able to regain control, and properly execute crime-scene particularities. However, they were more than a little distracted by people in what appeared to be dresses, or perhaps robes, appearing out of thin air and waving sticks around. Sticks that shot out multi-colored points of light that affected people in various ways. People that were also attempting to gain control of the situation. The muggle in charge of this group of police sighed and shook his head. 

He had a feeling that this was going to be a long night.  
  
  
~ ~ ~

  
  
Part of the reason that the scene inside the muggle home - one wall removed so that it resembled something akin to a stage - was so disturbing to the wizarding forces, was because child abuse was virtually unheard of. Do to excessive inbreeding and the first war against Voldemort, (and also the war against Gridelwald), there weren't a lot of wizarding children born. The Weasely family was definitely the exception rather than the rule, and most families held one, maybe two children. With two people only begetting one child, and with the increased possibility that two out of the three would be dead shortly, it really wasn't any wonder why the wizarding worlds population was decreasing. As a result of this disturbing trend, children were a highly valued commodity and given preferential treatment to help ensure their survival till adulthood. True, child abuse still existed, but the cases were few and far between, mainly occurring in families that could make their problems disappear, one way or another.  
  
The adults who had lived through either of the wars within the last century, (which were actually the majority of them, the few who hadn't had moved to the UK from other, untouched areas of the world), appreciated their children as only those who have seen terrible things can appreciate the beauty that lies in the naivety and innocent love of a child. To see such a precious being grow and love and be so happy and cheerful, was balm to the wounded and tortured souls who had survived.  
  
_That_ is the true reason why Minerva McGonagal taught, and why Poppy Pomfrey stayed at Hogwarts, even though she could have gotten a better paying position at St. Mungo's. Why most of the Aurors had never seen abuse to the degree shown on Harry's body, why Remus howled as if it was his life that was ending, and why Albus Dumbledore was feeling the intense urge to just sob and cry until he past out from dehydration or lack of air - whichever came first.  
  
Inside the Dursley residence, Madam Pomfrey had been doing her best and surpassing even her own exacting standards. Severus Snape had provided many much needed potions, most from his emergency supply hidden in his robes, some that he had apparated away to get. Harry was still weak, and in danger, but his eyes were brighter, and his breathing a little easier. It was as Poppy was still bustling around, applying salves and fixing what she could in these limited surroundings, that he decided to try and talk again.  
  
"Headmaster…", his voice was weak and raspy sounding, much hoarser than Albus could ever remember hearing him sound.  
"Hush my boy, save your strength." Weakly, Harry rocked his head in a negative, earning himself a strict reprimand from the nurse, and Professor McGonagall's hands against his head to hold it still.  
"I… have to tell you. Neville… he's…" The boy's voice failed him, and he uselessly swallowed and attempted to wet his dry and cracking lips with a tongue swollen in its parchedness. The headmaster summoned a glass of water, complete with straw, and at Poppy's approving nod, slowly began to help his poor boy drink.  
"Mr. Longbottom, Harry? Do you believe that something has happened to him?" Perhaps Harry had experienced a vision, something so ghastly that it had provoked his Uncle. Albus felt ill to think that, because of his failure to explain the importance of Occlumency, Harry might have had more pain heaped upon his already overburdened form. The boy in his arms, his boy in his arms at long last, that hadn't been possible since he had been one, and his thoughts were rambling while his child was trying to tell him something.  
_'Really Albus, the least you could do is pay attention to the lad, after all you put him through. But then, that would mean admitting that you were wrong, and the great Albus Dumbledore is infallible, isn't he? So old and wise that he couldn't possible make a mistake like placing a highly magical child in a muggle home that was known for its dislike for magic.'_  
His child attempted to shake his head again, but was stopped by his head of house's hands. He attempted to speak again, instead.  
"Neville, he's… strong. Chosen… other way… marked." And it was then that Albus felt another fragment of his already wounded hard break.  
  
~ ~ ~

  
  
Harry blinked his eyes slowly, the shapes and colours of the people surrounding him making him dizzy with all their sudden movements. Dimly, he felt his friend's presence, but they felt… off. Colder than the usual Gryffindor heat that permeated his housemates. Without his glasses, everything was fuzzier than usual, giving him a worse headache than he already had. He was supposed to be saying something, something important… to Professor Dumbledore.   
Harry turned his unfocused and more than slightly blind gaze to the face of his Headmaster that was so close to his own. He could even almost make out the familiar features. Nose slightly bent from being broken many year ago, a face lined with wrinkles that seemed to add rather than detract from his mentors powerful presence, the half-moon spectacles that were usually perched on the end of his nose, and did little to hide the light blue of the eyes that seemed to be nearly always twinkling in silent mirth and amusement with the world filled with problems that he had seen thousands of times before, and had ceased to be an annoyance.  
  
He had told the older wizard that Neville was the real chosen one. He had delivered his message. Maybe Albus, _'Professor Dumbledore'_, didn't believe him yet, but he would soon enough. Exhausted, Harry leaned his head onto the other wizards chest, deciding that the white beard made a nice pillow. Vaguely, he felt the whisper of soft hands leave his hair, and he listened to the comforting beating of Dumbledore's heart, and the rumble in his chest as he explained something that Harry couldn't quite focus on… oh well. If it were really important, he would find out eventually.


	7. Paranoia, Paranoia, Everybody's trying t...

Title: Come What May

Author: DuchessAndromeda

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: I own everything, because I am the Ruler of the World.  What? Didn't you know that?  Well, I am.  At least, of the world inside my mind… And I guess that since HP and Gang exist outside my mind, that I don't really own them either.  The lyrics at the end are from 'Flag Pole Sitta' which is a very interesting song.

Authors Notes:  Thanks be to all my wonderful reviewers.  **Becca**, I'm really not _trying_ to make you cry… **Golden Essence**, well, JKR did write them originally as children's books.  Who know what she would have added if they were meant for adults?  **Moo** thanks for the review.  I have to wait for Harry to awaken before TLC really gets going tho… **Wiccan**** PussyKat**, my wonderful beta and friend.  I'm sorry I didn't tell you it was my b-day, but I didn't really tell anyone else, either.  **Thundering Lights**, someone is watching me? Maybe that's what influenced the title of this chapter… **Nemati**, thank you for the compliments.  I would make the scenes longer, but my muse protests.  But then, my muse is possessed right now anyway… and **Athenakitty**, Moody _always_ spooks someone.  He enjoys it.  As for the rest, well, you'll just have to wait and see.

On with the show!

**~Chapter 6~**

Severus Snape was struggling with his conscience. His conscience that sounding frighteningly similar to James Potter. In fact, if Severus hadn't known any better, he would have thought it was the dead man's way of haunting him. But that was even more insane than arguing with himself when the child that he swore to protect, swore to Lily, was lying in the Headmaster's arms, bloodied hair against the formerly pristine white of the old man's beard.

_"Look at him, Snape! That child is dying and you have the power to save him!"_

****

**_"It's too risky; it could contradict the effects of the potions, making him worse instead of better."_**

_"Like a little risk has ever stopped you before. And this is his only hope! If you don't do this, he will die anyway, and then you'll **never** get a chance to know him, to see what made the great Dumbledore into someone that was human, what makes Poppy act so over-protective, and why Molly, who has seven children of her own, acts as if the world were ending. You have no choice!"_

"I have no choice." That decided, Severus moved a little bit away from where Poppy and McGonagall were fussing over Potter. Just far enough away to pick up one of the knives that the foolish muggle had been using sometime earlier in the evening. He spelled it clean, rolled up one of his long black sleeves to reveal the pale skin underneath, already adorned with scars, and brought the blade across it in a elongated, shallow stroke.

Red blood welled up from the parted flesh, moving as if eager to be used for its owners intended purpose. Someone outside the house who had been paying attention screamed something about a suicide. The aurors and muggle police increased their struggle to contain the crowd and a few spared him a glace. Most of the Aurors had either had him as a teacher, or knew of him from one who had. They knew that what he was doing had to be something to do with potions, and the muggle police who didn't know of him were too busy trying to figure out what else was going on to really try to talk him out of "killing" himself.

One handed, Severus carefully unstopped a few of the more powerful healing and blood replenishing potions and set them down nearby. One by one, he raised them to his arm to catch the flow of life that refused to still. After they all had some amount of his blood in them, he spelled the cut closed and re-stopped the potions to swirl the blood, making it into a homogenous mixture. Silently, he moved back over to Poppy and handed the new potions to her. She used the first few without a second thought, but about the fourth one she noticed the slight discoloration and change in texture.

"Severus? What exactly is this?"

"A healing potion, Poppy. I thought that you would know what one looked like by now."

"I do know what they look like, and it isn't like this. There is only one potion powerful enough to even attempt what this one is doing is a completely different color."

"And I've administered enough potions in my time to remember that the normal healing potions are not of this consistency," McGonagall added. Severus hesitated before explaining what he had done.

"With most charms and potions, part of the power to change or heal a person comes from the caster, and the rest comes from the one it is administered to. My belief is that by adding blood to a potion, it would increase the drain on the makers magic, instead of on the drinkers. There was a slight risk, but…"

"No more than not taking it, in this case," Poppy finished for him. "Well, it does seem to be working, much more than the others were. The only question I have left, is if this is going to leave me with two patients instead of just one. How much magic does it take from you?"

"A trivial amount, mainly what was in the blood itself. When combined with the other ingredients, and Potter's own blood, it should act as a catalyst, enabling less magic to perform the same job as a lot of magic." Poppy looked at him suspiciously, but McGonagall called her attention back to the boy. The Headmaster wasn't paying attention to the others, just murmuring softly to his child.

~~~

Up the stairs in number four Privet Drive, there existed four bedrooms. Moody looked at them, surveying them with his magical eye to see which one to check first. The first was easily discarded, as he remembered it being Harry's when they had come to pick him up last year. The second was just as easily forgotten as it had nothing of value, the walls of this guest room covered in garish flowers that clashed with the bedspread. The third door looked more promising, the look inside showing a lot of broken muggle gadgets and a bed containing a great whale of… person... that had to be Harry's cousin Dudley.

Deciding that this was a good a place as any to start, Moody clomped his way to Dudley's door. It was locked, but a quick _Alohamora_ fixed that. The first thing that he noticed upon opening the door was a musty scent that he usually associated with rooms long left unused and unaired. There was a faint undercurrent of sweat, mold, and urine in 

the room, they type that he usually only found in Azkaban and torture cells.

He picked his way through the discarded possessions of the enormous child and made his way to its bedside. He wasn't making any effort to be quiet, but the person on the bed never stirred.

Half-way there, Moody hesitated. Something was Not Right. His senses were screaming at him that this was a trap. Normally, he would have been already casting curses left and right, but this, this was a special case. He stood completely still in the middle of the floor and quieted his breathing, listening. It was then that he realized exactly why his senses were telling him it was a trap.

Dudley Dursely wasn't breathing.

Somewhere, someone began to scream.

~~~

Outside the house, Ron and Hermione stood with the other Order Members who had resisted all attempts to group them with the others. They were still completely silent, while the chaos bubbled and churned around them.

Hermione was shaking with a cold fury, her magic sparking around her clenched fists. For the first time in many years, she was losing control of that which made her a witch, and under any other circumstances, she would have been terrified.

As it was, she was only mildly disturbed, but that quickly changed as Something approached. She _felt_ the wards surrounding the house, heard their keening as some sort of pressure was placed upon them. It grew worse, and she covered her ears and screamed as the pressure and volume increased, her magic careening out of control, and increasing the pressure which caused a feed-back loop of dangerous proportions.

She felt hands on her shoulders and looked to see Ron in front of her, shaking her, moving his lips to ask her something. She couldn't hear and didn't understand why he wasn't feeling this too. Abruptly, the wards broke, and the pressure stopped. Despite the relief this gave her, she still knew that this was a Very Bad Thing.

"The wards are down!" She screamed, and the Aurors nearby began checking to see if that was indeed true.

But they were too slow.

Overhead, a large bird circled slowly and ominously, coming ever closer to the house and its occupants. Spells were fired in an attempt to bring it down, but nothing seemed to phase it. As it drew nearer, some recognized it as a Vulture. Closer still, and they realized that it had some sort of carrion in its beak. When it landed in the circle of light, those closest to it took an unconscious step back.

Not only was this non-native bird bearing carrion, it apparently _was_ one as well. One of it's eyes was hanging out of it's socket, and as it moved it dropped bits of flesh. It waddled over to Hermione, attracted by the sparks of colour she was still shooting out, and dropped its cargo at her feet.

A rat with a silver paw.

~~~

"Hermione, is that…" Ron started, looking at the body of his former familiar that was actually Peter Pettigrew in disguise.

"I… I think it is, Ron." Hermione stared at it, fascinated. She could almost see where the silver joined with human flesh and wouldn't it be interesting to be able to perform, and undo, that spell herself? Then, the decaying scavenger bird opened its mouth, and they realized why it was this bird bringing them the rat.

"Hello friends of Potter. I was wondering when you were going to put two and two together, and realize that Harry's case made more than four. It really wasn't all that difficult to see, if you actually took the time.

"And I find myself with plenty of time these days. There are only so many plans that can be made in advance, the rest depend on your opponents move. Isn't that right, Ron? I understand that you are quite the strategist. I might be able to find a use for you, if you realize your mistake, after all.

"Don't you see yet? Your hero is nothing more than a broken child. Not one worth fighting me." A hair-raising, shrill voice came from the vulture's beak.

"How…" Ron started, before the avian cut him off.

"- Is this possible? Re-animation spells are wonderful things, you know. And Imperio can be quite persuasive, especially on Muggles. Did you know that you can enchant an object to place a compulsion on something, even if you're not there yourself? Ah, the wonders of the Dark Arts, and you wonder why I enjoy them so. It really was just too simple. Foolish Dumbledore...you never did quite understand blood magic, even if you did base Potter's wards on them. It all depended on mutual acceptance, and on Harry's being able to call this place home."

Hermione stood rooted to the spot, her heart pounding in her ears. She had never heard that voice before, but she knew that there was only one person it could belong to...

"But Harry is more like me that Dumbledore likes to think about. The place we return to in the summer was never our home, that was Hogwarts, where the magic lay. Poor, poor child. It didn't take all that much to break him either, did it?. A vision here, a beating there... it was all just too easy.

"You might want to warn that Headmaster of yours, if you can, of course. But then, you are too late anyway. Your precious boy-wonder will be dead within the hour. Toodles." The zombie fell over, now just a pile of flesh and bone. Feeling slightly sick, Hermione bent shakily and picked up the rat by its tail, examining it.

"Well, the bad news is that he's still breathing. The good news is that maybe now Sirius can be cleared, even posthumously." Ron nodded, and by unspoken agreement, they both turned and for the first time that evening, headed inside the house. Hermione slipped the stunned animagus into a pocket, and began to hum a little tune that she had heard a while ago.

_"Oh, I'm not sick but I'm not well_

_But that just fine_

_Cause__ I'm in Hell…"_


	8. Held but myself, and Immortality

_Title: Come What May_

_Author: DuchessAndromeda_

_Rating: Pg-13_

_Disclaimer: I write fanfiction. I'm 17. I don't have a job and I live with my parents. After all that, do you really think that **I** own Harry Potter and his friends? Please. Only in my slashy dreams._

_Author's Notes: I'm posting this, and I'm also going to copy what I saw another author did and put the review responses up on my livejournal. The link is in my profile, but it's also www. livejournal. com/ users/ angelicpain_

_Thank you to all my reviewers and my wonderful beta, Wiccan PussyKat. As you can see, I do not plan on discontinuing the story, even if I did take about a month long hiatus… sorry, school got in my way. I was busy writing lots and lots of IB and AP essays. And I still have one test left to go, yay! Not._

* * *

It was dark, but it wasn't threatening. Somehow, in this place, it didn't matter that he shouldn't be here, or that he couldn't see anything else. All that mattered was the peace that the darkness brought, the promise of safety while he rested. Harry closed his eyes (although there really wasn't any difference in the sight), and let himself drift away.

He didn't know how much time had passed when he finally came back to himself. The scenery was still the same, as well as the comforting presence. Harry waited, letting his mind work through everything it hadn't had a chance to this summer, trusting in the fact that he really had seen Albus, and that the Headmaster wouldn't have let him go anywhere that was completely unsafe.

Harry was looked up, (although there wasn't really an 'up'), and was surprised to see the area in front of him gradually lightening. It wasn't much, but in this utter darkness, the littlest bit helped. Slowly, even though there was no time - it still seemed slow - the light condensed and formed itself into an old man. At least, Harry thought the man was old.

With white hair the man's only true concession to age, it was rather difficult to determine if this person was 30 or 300. The face was smooth, unmarked by time and worry, but his eyes (green as Harry's own) held within them much wisdom and sadness. However, none of these things were what managed to convey the illusion of age the most.

It was the power of the sheer presence that the man held. As if it were a force tightly bound by the master that only time and practice could be. But even though the power seemed to be controlled, it's strength was still there, straining to be let loose, much like a chained dragon. Chains can only hold out for so long, and Harry hoped to be nowhere near this stranger when they broke.

The man smiled, and it was pleasant, even if it did bear faint resemblance to one of a predator. He seemed familiar to Harry, and when he spoke with voice like whispered wind, Harry knew that he had met this man before.

"Hello, Harry. It has been a while since I have truly seen you last. I am Death."

* * *

Up in Dudley's room, Alastor Moody cast his magical gaze around the room, searching for any more surprises. He was looking for the faint glow that indicated that an object was enchanted, and his patience paid off. He had dismissed the faint red light when he had entered the room, believing it to be caused by the muggle's alarm clock. Now he once again berated himself for his lapse of Constant Vigilance, as he realized that the glow was coming from the clock, but from the buttons instead of the numbers. Like most things in the room, it didn't come with the complete certainty that it would be touched every day, but as an alarm clock, it stood a better chance than most. Finding no other charms, Moody stepped closer in order to get a better look at the youngest Dursley.

On the surface, the child appeared to be merely sleeping, and it was the little things that close observation revealed that made Moody sure that the overweight boy had been dead for a while. For one, even though the scent of urine hung in the air, the sheets were not damp. Also, the boy's too-pink skin seemed to have expanded, and not with extra weight, rather with the preparation for sloughing off. Interestingly enough, there was no smell of decay in the room. If Dudley had been dead for as long as it seemed he had, wouldn't he have started to emit the noxious odour of decay and death? As far as Moody knew, there was only one way for all the factors to be combined.

Feeling cold inside, he clunked out of the room, hurrying towards the master bedroom and Petunia.

* * *

Someone was calling his name, but it didn't matter. Nothing matter except to him except for the child in his arms. It was only when two pairs of hands inserted themselves into his line of sight and threatened to tear his boy away that he looked up. In front of Albus stood the two teenagers that had first alerted him to his child's fate. They looked different, and it took him a moment to place what had changed. They appeared to been frosted, as if they had been standing in the snow for long periods of time. Small icicles clung to any available hair and their lips were lined with a bluish tint. Albus blinked. It was summertime. Forcing his mind clear of such thoughts, he gave them a mildly reproaching look. They hadn't really done anything, after all.

"Voldemort planned this." The words spoken by the red haired part of the duo effectively cleared Albus' mind of any remaining fog fragments.

"How do you know this?"

"Because he just visited us under the guise of a zombied vulture. He also came bearing gifts, as if in payment for what he hopes for." Hermione reached into her pocket and dangled the unconscious rat by its tail, allowing the Headmaster to view its silver paw. Once she was satisfied that he had looked enough, the rat went back into her pocket.

"And so at last the final marauder comes back to us. Thank you Ms. Granger, get one of the professors to conjure you an unbreakable jar. Leave some holes for air, but I think that's all he'll be needing." Hermione nodded, and his child felt heavier in his arms. Albus glanced down on slightly open eyelids, showing nothing but white. He put one hand near Harry's face, but felt no warm puffs of air welcome it.

"Poppy!"

* * *

"D..Death?!?! But, but..."

"But what, Harry?" The mans voice was gentle, soothing. "I thought that you wanted it all to end. To come back to me again."

"Yes - no - not like…" Harry pushed his glasses up further on his nose and attempted to explain. "I want it to be over… but I don't want Voldemort to win."

"What makes you think that you are the only one that can bring him to me? You, a child still in school. Underfed, abused, neglected. How can you bring him to me?" Harry's eyes filled with tears that he wouldn't let fall. He was Harry Potter, and Harry Potter wasn't supposed to cry. Even in front of strange men who claimed to be Death.

"I know that I can't. But I have to try! If I don't try, what would happen to them? The other students… they don't know much of anything about defending themselves. Even the Seventh years last year needed my help… if I can't do it, don't lead them, then who will?"

"What about your Headmaster, the one who defeated Grindelwald? Surely one who did that could take care of another Dark Lord."

"He can't. He's already dealt with one dark lord, should he really be expected to deal with another? Hasn't he paid his debt?" The man smiled at this. He really was pleased, but it still made a shiver run down Harry's spine. "And besides which, Voldemort… he's not real any more… is he."

"No, he's not. And do you know why?" Harry swallowed thickly. He knew that he really wouldn't like what the next revelation would be… but he had to know. Stiffly, he nodded his head. "Tom is not real any more because you distracted me. I hadn't expected for that day to come so soon… And then he became even less real when he was resurrected." Harry felt his heart sink. It really was all his fault.

"W…Why? Why did I distract you?"

"Ah, that is a question for when you understand more. But don't worry, I'll be sure to tell you before we leave this place."

"And where is this place, exactly?"

"Why, Harry, don't you recognize it? We're inside your mind."

* * *

Alastor had found much of the same in Petunia Dursley's room, so he grimly set out back down the stairs. There was still Vernon to consider, after all.


	9. Absence makes the Heart Grow Fonder

_Title: Come What May_

_Author: DuchessAndromeda_

_Rating: Pg-13_

_Author's Notes: Err.. yeah, sorry everyone!! See, this was supposed to be out a few weeks ago (in honor of PK, my beta, having a birthday), but my parents have been finding excuses to force me **outside**, of all things. BUT Chapter nine is almost done, so everything should be hunky dory in another couple of days! Thanks everyone for being so patient, and for all the wonderful reviews that I've received. You guys and gals are just fabulous._

* * *

Lies and deceit all swirled together, merging into the largest untruth of all. There was a truth left in all of this, but the threads were tangled, hopelessly ensnarled, so that the single truth was hard to find.

"Tom Riddle was an angry man, but first he was simply a scared child. His life in the orphanage was hard on him, and he learned quickly that it was the smaller, quieter children who were more likely to be harassed by the older ones, as it was thought that they wouldn't fight back. He taught himself to show nothing of what he really thought, aided by some worn-out books that he had found one day in a rubbish bin. However, the man in charge of the orphanage didn't like the boys who spoke out against their "betters" and attempted to put the fear of the One God into young Tom. This resulted in massive blood loss, and amnesia." There were nearly tears in the eyes of Death, but Harry knew that Death would not cry for just a loss of memory. There was something more here, something unsaid…

"But sir, if Riddle had amnesia, that how did he know all that stuff about himself when I met him in the Chamber of Secrets? How did he regain his memory?" Death smiled at Harry then. A small smile, conveying so expertly the pain twined with sadness that Harry felt his own heart constrict with grief.

"In most cases, a person with amnesia would be cured rather quickly. A few hours or days, and they would be fine again. However, there are sometimes problems with making everything that they had learned fit with what they knew before. And some of the people around him were… convincing. Keep in mind that this was the late 20's and early 30's, and that Grindelwald was rapidly gaining power in the wizarding world. The world was different then, Spare the Rod and spoil the child and all that. At that time, simple spells seemed even more magical, and a child's imagination could rapidly run away with him." The white haired man whose features were so familiar to Harry, even if the younger couldn't remember where he had seen them before, looked expectantly at him, as if asking him to assemble the pieces to a galactic puzzle. Slowly, Harry began to speak.

* * *

Harry Potter wasn't breathing. That much even the farthest reaches of the vast crowd that had gathered around number four Privet Drive knew. To some parts of this crowd, those words conjured up vague impressions of a small boy with unruly black hair that had followed after Petunia Dursley for many years. To some, like the police officers, it brought only the vague anxiety and sadness that most decent people felt when they heard that someone nearby was in trouble. But to the majority of the people gathered in this usually so prim and proper muggle neighbourhood, the very idea that Harry Potter wasn't breathing was enough to send them into a panic. This was their hero, the only person to survive the killing curse! Was Death so cruel as to take him away _now_, at the very time when it seemed that they would need him most?

Under his breath, Snape said a spell that would ward the house and enable those inside to work in silence, well away from the raising panic that the outside was emitting. Poppy sent him a grateful look before devoting her full attention back to the Potter boy still lying in Dumbledore's arms.

As a child, Severus Snape had dreamed big dreams. Of being accepted and loved for who and what he was. He had thought that he had found that with Voldemort, a family that would care for him and accept him no matter what. He had used the mirror of Erised on occasion, and was surprised how things changed. The variations on the same tune of love and tranquility. Now, Dumbledore was the only one who had truly believed in him, even the other members of the Order did not. And his only chance for being truly free of the madman that had claimed so much of Severus' life already was dead, or dying.

Distraction. He needed to distract himself from these thoughts. But there was nothing to distract himself with! Even the whimperings of the muggle had ceased, and now the only sound was Moody clunking down the stairs, and - was that crying? A quick glance around the room revealed that it was none of the usual suspects, or even anyone in this room. In fact, if he didn't know any better, and he had to because the alternative was simply impossible, he would have thought that the sound was coming from under the stairs.

But that was impossible!

Wasn't it?

* * *

As Alastor Moody came down the stairs of the modern muggle dwelling, he was greeted by silence broken mainly by Poppy as she said something to Minerva or one of the others around her in an effort to save the boy's life. He was also greeted by the usual Snape glare, lessened slightly by tight lines of worry around the younger man's eyes.

"What?"

"Shh. Just listen. Do you hear that?" Moody cast Snape a look. He of all people should know that Moody heard more than most and that he should have been more specific. His stomach wasn't tight with warning yet, so there was still time enough for him to play along. Let's see, orders from Poppy, Minerva, Weasely, and Granger's replies, Dumbledore, Snape's breathing, and then.. wait! That can't be right.

"Who's that crying?" Snape shook his head.

"None of ours are missing. Either in here or easily seen out there. As far as I know, no one has been stupid enough to go near the cupboard, much less climb inside." They looked at each other. Snape had been an Auror once, and knew the basic signals that never really changed. Moody came the rest of the way down the stairs and waited for Snape to move into position, wand pointed at the cupboard door. As soon as Snape had a clear shot, Moody flipped the latch and swung it open. To his surprise, Snape went even paler and seemed incapable of speech. Curious now, Moody gave a look through with his magical eye, and found himself, too, unable to speak, with the exception of one word...

"Merlin!"


	10. Snippits and AN

**AUTHORS NOTE!!!!**

_HI all! I'm terribly sorry about the long wait, and I promise that the next chapter is almost finished. In fact, its almost twice as long as my usual chapter. The thing is, school is mean, and I am sick. Very very sick. In fact, I've only been awake for a total of 4 hours today. Yeah. Anyway, its at my Mother's house, I'm at my Father's, and Hurricane Charley is mean._

_I should be sending it off to PK (wonderful, understanding PK who got to meet JKR) either Sunday or Monday. SO! It should be posted next week sometime. The wait is almost over. Here's a snippit to tide you over until then._

_hugs and kisses_

_-Duchess_

* * *

Ron and Hermione were very different types of people. Anyone could tell this just by looking at them. Ron was tall and gangly, his awkward way of holding himself often left one with the impression of someone completely unused to his body, and his movements were often faintly reminiscent of a muggle performer who walked on stilts. Hermione, on the other hand, was usually completely put together. Shirts were tucked in, ties perfectly tied. The only thing unmanageable about her appearance was her hair, and that usually reflected her rather frazzled nature, always excited about some new idea or concept. Usually, if there were a reason for it, Ron would shake a persons hand, and if they were deemed allowable, attempt to engage them in a rather vigorous thumb war. Hermione would gently press with the perfect amount of force, before quickly leaving to either head to the library, or to go and thing about something the person she was leaving had said. Never let it be said that Hermione ever stopped thinking.

The end of the beginning was perhaps way back in their first year when they had fought the troll. At that time the three story lines officially merged into one, brought together by the lie that Hermione told to try and keep Ron and Harry out of trouble. Could it be then that their entire relationship was based upon lies? No, not lies, rather they were guilty merely of the sin of omission. Secrets told only to each other, laughed at by adults. But Ron's jokes often held a grain of truth in them, and Hermione's exclamations were often wrong. There was so little left now that was truly theirs. For most of the adventures, at least one person now knew. In fact, there was little that the Order did not know now, and how would their relationship change with the Boy-Who-Lived? For better or worse now, the deed was done.

* * *

"When I was a child, my cupboard was safe to me. It was in there that I could imagine all the wondrous things that I knew had to be out there, away from the Durselys. I made up my own little world of people and places where it was always bright and shiny and everyone wanted me around for me. I didn't mind the long hours that I was locked up in there because it gave me more time with them. I made the mistake of telling someone once. Just a child on the playground that had been nice to me. They got scared of me, and my imagination, and so they told a teacher, who then told Uncle Vernon." In this utter darkness, Death was the only bright spot and he drew Harry as a moth to flame, and didn't _that_ sound morbid. Without any conscious effort on Harry's part (indeed without any real _movement_ on Harry's part), he found himself gradually moving closer to the older man. He was close enough now that if he chose, he could reach out and run a finger down the embroidery on the man's sleeves. Harry swallowed before continuing. "I was, punished, for such thoughts. That's when the real chores started, anything to keep my body in motion and my brain not functioning. I don't have a lot of memory of that time, but it seems to me that a man came by that I didn't know... he fixed, something. Anyway, that wasn't what I was trying to say, I think." Death's gaze was shrewd, and something told Harry that he had just given away far more than he meant to.


End file.
